


37 Finch Street

by quare_id_faciam



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Another garbage fic, F/M, Gen, a little violence in later chapters but nothing too graphic, and yes it's another time travel fic, smut in later chapters, sue me, the warning is mostly related to the nature of the show, this is what I work on when I'm stuck on my other garbage fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quare_id_faciam/pseuds/quare_id_faciam
Summary: When Imogen LaReau finds herself in Victorian London, all she wants is to keep her head down and try to find a way back home. When a tenant in her building is murdered, however, she unwittingly draws the attention of Dr. Homer Jackson and Detective Edmund Reid. With her modern knowledge, can Imogen help them put the most notorious criminal to walk the streets of London behind bars?
Relationships: Dick Hobbs/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Always Look Both Ways

Although she would one day come to appreciate the carelessness that changed her life so suddenly on a foggy London morning, Imogen LaReau really ought to have waited a moment longer before stepping into the street. She was just meters away from her destination: the Whitechapel tube station that would ferry her to Heathrow for her flight back home. The light had turned, but she didn’t anticipate the lorry driver who thought he could outrun it. Her body didn’t even register the impact before she was airborne, and she was unconscious before she hit the ground. 

* * *

The light was dim when Imogen awoke to a pounding ache in her head, making her think that perhaps she was still in her hostel’s uncomfortable bed and the accident had only been a dream. Cracking her eyes open, she was dismayed to discover that this was not the case, although something was definitely amiss. The light was explained by the fog that lay heavily over the alleyway she rested in. Although the sun was well on its way to rising, the weak beams barely pierced the cloying London smog. Imogen was surprised that no one had attempted to rouse her, and that emergency services hadn’t yet arrived, but told herself that she had only been out for a short while. As her eyes took in the street around her, however, this explanation fell far short of convincing. 

Gone was the lorry; gone were her fellow pedestrians in jeans and thick jumpers. The intersection of Whitechapel Road and Court Street she had become familiar with over the past week had disappeared, only to be replaced by cobbles and wagons and antique clothing. 

For a long while, all Imogen could do was stare at the sight before her, mouth agape and eyes wide. A thousand thoughts raced through her head: she was still dreaming; someone was playing an impressive prank; perhaps she was actually in a coma and this was all just in her head. The plink of metal beside her roused her from her thoughts with a jolt; a coin landed on the pavement beside her hip. Imogen blinked up at the figure looming over her, startled that someone had approached without her noticing. 

A kindly looking old man smiled at her before continuing down the road, steps aided by a carved wooden cane. Imogen stared after him a moment before returning her gaze to the coin he’d tossed. That explained why she had been left alone, she thought distantly as she picked up the small piece of metal with trembling fingers; slumped on the sidewalk as she had been, she would’ve been easily mistaken for one of London’s many homeless. The benevolent gentleman likely thought that the sixpence coin he’d tossed her would at least buy her something to eat, which it might’ve done in the year the coin had been minted some one hundred and ten years before Imogen’s birth. 

She brushed the pad of her thumb over the date, unable to believe what she was seeing. Not only had the sixpence coin fallen into obsolescence decades before Imogen was even a twinkle in her parents’ eyes, but this particular coin had been minted in the year 1888 and somehow looked almost brand new, as if it had never passed from pocket to pocket. She clenched the coin in her fist so tightly that it dug into her skin, holding fast to the odd little talisman as it reminded her of her current predicament. 

Imogen was still sitting on the cold pavement, obstructing the pedestrians that passed her by with hardly more than a glance. No one around her showed any sign of modernity and she failed to hear the rush of traffic or the near-constant sirens of the city. The late March chill bit into her, sending a shiver throughout her body. If this was a dream or some other creation of her imagination, it was beginning to feel a little too real. But what could she do?

Imogen could certainly remain laying on the pavement until she woke from her dream or coma, but the nagging chill and faint rumblings of a hungry stomach told her that it wouldn’t be a pleasant wait. She could wander until she awoke, but that would still carry the same issues. She could try to soldier on in this smoggy, unfamiliar London, or she could try to wake herself by doing something outrageous, say, leaping from a rooftop or jumping in front of a carriage to shock herself awake. Though unconvinced that her surroundings were not a dream, Imogen wasn’t sure she was willing to risk the latter. Soldiering on it was. 

With a soft groan, Imogen pulled herself to her feet, absently patting off her skirt as she tried to figure out which way to go. Her bag bumped against her hip as she moved; it was a comforting weight, reminding her that she at least had something to prove she wasn't as crazy as she felt. 

Slowly, Imogen began to pick her way down the street, avoiding curious stares and sticking close to the buildings when she could. She passed a bakery and a grocer, as well as several clothing stores, but the number of people inside made her wary of stepping in; she continued on. As she paused on a street corner to wait for a handful of wagons to pass, the young woman happened to glance down and spotted a discarded newspaper. The headline earned a double take and Imogen immediately bent down to snatch up the crumpled paper, eyes wide with shock.

If the newspaper was to be believed, the date was February 26th, 1889, and the Eiffel Tower was scheduled to open to the public in France in little over a month, hence the publication. Imogen couldn't help it; she laughed. It wasn't the usual belly laugh her colleagues ribbed her for, but a short bark edged with the slightest tinge of hysteria, unnerving enough to prompt the gentleman beside her to quickly cross the street to put some distance between them.

"This is a nightmare," Imogen murmured to herself after letting the newspaper fall at last. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

She continued down the street aimlessly, turning here and there, peering into shops as she passed and trying to formulate some sort of plan. The first thing she needed was money, then a place to live, if she were to survive in this maybe-a-dream-but-maybe-not reality. Imogen considered herself fairly street-smart, but not when it came to living rough and _certainly_ not in the 19th century.

The further she got from Whitechapel Street, the emptier the shops became. Finely tailored suits and bright embellished dresses were replaced by clothing that had seen years of wear in practical colors of brown and grey, telling Imogen that she was surrounded by the working class rather than the upper echelons that could afford the overpriced goods in main street boutiques. The houses and storefronts were dingier as well, although that was hardly saying much in such a polluted city.

It wasn’t until an older man scolded her for standing in the way as he passed that Imogen realized that she had come to a stop in the middle of the walkway during her observation. Surprised, she edged towards the wall closest to her with the intent of getting her bearings, only to notice that it was a storefront rather than a residence. Curious, Imogen peered through the window to see that it was empty of customers. The lettering just above her head announced ‘Berenbaum’s Second-hand Goods,’ almost as if it were, quite literally, a sign from above. Deciding that the shop seemed as good a place as any to get her feet beneath her, Imogen slowly pushed the door open, wincing as the jingle of a bell announced her entrance. 

The inside of the shop, although a bit dimly lit, was surprisingly tidy and clean. Several shelves held household items like pots and pans, racks of clothing and shoes lined the far wall, and the glass case of the register counter held an assortment of jewelry and numerous pocket watches. The space nearest the window was occupied by small furniture pieces and knick-knacks. In the far corner of the room, an older bespectacled gentleman emerged from a half opened doorway. 

“Good Morning, Miss,” he greeted her with a friendly smile, making Imogen feel immediately at ease despite the lingering anxiety and general sense of misplacement. “How may I help you?”

Imogen swallowed awkwardly. His English was accented; she could tell he was not from the British Isles or even France, and the knowledge that this man had himself left his homeland for the smoggy London streets made her feel brave enough to speak.

“Good Morning, sir,” she replied at last, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Do you happen to buy items as well as sell them?”

The man made his way behind the counter so that he was closer to Imogen, smile still in place. “I do, if I believe that they can be sold for a fair price. Have you something to sell today?”

The young woman slowly approached the counter, unzipping her bag and fumbling around inside.

“Anything I can,” she answered nervously. “I have some jewelry and trinkets, and a pair of shoes that are almost new. I’ll accept what you can give me for them, if you think they’ll sell.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the items in question on the counter before her. Inside a small travel jewelry case were an assortment of earrings and two necklaces, which she pulled out for the man to see. Beside those she set her spare shoes, leather oxfords she had only gotten to wear a handful of times. Lastly, she lined up an assortment of trinkets she had picked up in the city to bring home, hoping that she could sell at least enough to manage a place to stay for a while.

The gentleman peered over his spectacles at Imogen for a moment before turning his attention to the objects lining his counter. Imogen waited in nervous silence as he examined them one by one, holding the necklaces up in the light of a nearby gas lamp and turning the trinkets over in his weathered hands. 

“These are all nicely made,” he commented at last, setting down the small blown glass perfume bottle Imogen had picked up in Greenwich only the day before. “I wish I could take them all, but I’m afraid I already have similar items that have yet to sell.” He gestured at the little ceramic bowl and the assortment of earrings before picking up a small notebook and pencil. “For the necklaces, shoes, and others, however, I can offer you this.” He placed the notebook on the counter so that Imogen could see the itemized list. “If you are willing to part with the little jewelry box I will add 8 pence, making a total of one pound, seventeen shillings, and 6 pence.”

Imogen barely glanced at the list before agreeing. “I’ll take it.” She had no way of knowing whether or not the prices truly were fair, but she really didn't have much choice. The older man seemed a decent fellow from the first impression, so she hoped that feeling held true.

Imogen tucked the wayward earrings and other trinkets back into her bag as the man slowly counted out a decent handful of coins. As he laid them out on the counter before her, the young woman decided to bite the bullet and ask about a place to stay.

"Would you be able to tell me where I might find suitable housing for a single occupant?" She asked quietly, hoping her query wasn't too strange.

The older man peered at her over his spectacles for a long moment after placing the rest of the coins before her. "I take it you are new to the city?" he asked, although Imogen sensed it wasn't as much a question as a statement. She nodded.

"Due to, um, unforeseen circumstances, I have found myself in need of a place to live until I can make my way back home," she said awkwardly. It wasn't a lie at all, yet somehow it seemed to feel like one as the words passed her lips.

The man stared at her a moment longer, giving her the strangest sense that he somehow knew she wasn't telling the whole truth, before nodding to himself.

"I would not offer otherwise, but I have a strange feeling that you were brought here into my shop for a reason. More than just selling your trinkets." A shiver ran down Imogen's spine, but she oddly did not feel ill at ease from this admission. "I feel that I have been brought into your path to help you."

He nodded again before disappearing back through the door he had first emerged from, leaving Imogen staring after him, mouth agape. Just as quickly, he reappeared with coat in hand, placing a worn black bowler upon his balding head.

"Come, child," he urged Imogen, stepping around the counter and gesturing towards the door. "I will show you where you might stay."

Imogen obeyed, hurriedly sweeping her coins into her coat pocket and following the man, despite all childhood warnings of "stranger danger." Just like her new companion, she had the strange feeling that she was meant to follow him.

"Thank you for helping me," she said softly as they stepped into the smoggy street, waiting patiently for the man to lock up his shop. "I'm very grateful for your assistance." 

The older man smiled down at her, gesturing for her to follow him down the road. She followed without hesitation. "It is what any person should do for another," he replied, almost waving off her thanks. "Besides, I am also doing my daughter a favor."

Upon seeing Imogen's questioning frown, he chuckled. "My daughter, Rebecca, lost a tenant several weeks ago and has been in search of another to fill the empty room. She will be glad to have you."

Imogen smiled, pleased to hear that she was being taken to a family member and not a public house or something of the sort. "I'm Imogen, by the way," she said, realizing that they had never officially been introduced. "Imogen LaReau."

Her companion stopped suddenly, sweeping his hat off his greying head with a look of something akin to guilt on his face. "Forgive me, I have been remiss! I am Levi Berenbaum; it is lovely to meet you!"

Imogen giggled, shaking his proffered hand. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Berenbaum."

That settled, the odd pair set off again, turning several corners until the gentleman paused before a well kept brick house with very little space between the front steps and the walkway. “Here we are,” he announced before stepping up to unlock the door, gesturing for Imogen to follow.

Hesitantly, she stepped into the house behind him, allowing the door to close after her as her companion called into the house for his daughter.

“Rebecca?”

A short moment later, the door opposite them swung open, revealing a heavily pregnant woman who looked to be a handful of years older than Imogen. Upon seeing them, her face broke into a wide smile reminiscent of her father’s.

“Papa!” she exclaimed happily. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit today!”

The older man stepped forward to embrace her before turning to introduce Imogen.

“I can only stay for a moment, my dear. Miss LaReau here is in need of lodging and I know you are in search of a new tenant. Perhaps the two of you might come to an arrangement?”

The young woman’s face brightened and she gestured for Imogen to step inside the house. “Of course, please come in!”

The older gentleman tipped his hat to them both and turned to head back the way they had come. “Lovely to meet you, Miss. I hope you’re able to find your way home soon.”

The blood drained from Imogen’s face as he departed, stunning her momentarily before she remembered that she had told him herself in his shop that she was trying to get home. Shaking her head at her folly, she turned and followed the other woman into her home, crossing her fingers that this stroke of good luck would not let her down.


	2. A Place to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogen finds a place to live and goes on a shopping trip for her new reality, keeping her fingers crossed that it's all just one weird dream.

The inside of the home was delightfully warm in contrast to the damp chill of the late February day. A staircase to their right led to the upper floors, where Imogen supposed the room for rent might be, and several other doors lined the narrow entrance hall. 

“I’m Rebecca Gerwitz,” her hostess introduced herself, snapping Imogen out of her inspection. 

“Oh, I’m Imogen LaReau,” she replied, holding her hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at Imogen’s accent. “Not from around here, then?”

The younger woman blushed awkwardly. “Ah, no. Just visiting indefinitely.”

With a delicate shrug, Rebecca answered, “Well, it’s not my business anyways,” and immediately switched the topic to the reason Imogen was there in the first place. “The open room is on the third floor. The washroom and kitchen are through that door there,” she pointed at the door at the far end of the hall before gesturing at the one nearest them, “and our rooms are through here. My husband and I occupy the lower level and half of this floor; three other tenants occupy the rooms on the second and third floors. Come on; I’ll show you the room.”

Following along like an obedient puppy, Imogen trailed her up the stairs to the third floor. It was slow going, considering Rebecca’s condition, but she didn’t mind the extra time to take in the house around her. Once on the third landing, the older woman produced a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door closest to the stairway. 

“Here it is,” she announced, pushing the wooden door open and stepping aside. Imogen entered and looked around, pleasantly surprised that the room was already furnished. Weak sunlight streamed in from two windows along the front wall, under which lay a decent sized bed and a small desk, upon which stood a washbasin and pitcher. The room also held a wardrobe, an empty bookshelf, a curious little cabinet, and a small wood-burning stove tucked into one corner. Although a far cry from the modern setup she was used to, it was charming.

“Rent is 18 shillings on the first of every month, or five per week paid on Sundays. If you do decide to stay, I won’t charge any extra if you move in today considering it’s the last day of the month and half gone already.”

Imogen did a mental calculation of the coins weighing down her pocket and winced; one months’ rent was just about half of everything she had. She’d need to find some sort of employment soon if she wanted a roof over her head after the month was out.

“I’ll take it,” she said before she could second guess herself, turning back to Rebecca, who beamed at her.

“Wonderful!” the older woman replied. “You can leave your things if you like and join me downstairs. I’ll make us some tea and explain some of the house rules; there’s just a basic contract to sign, and then the room is yours! Here’s your key, and this one is for the front door.” She pulled a small silver key off the ring and handed it to Imogen, followed by a larger iron one. “The other tenants are all lovely, but it’s always best to make a habit of locking your door just in case. Join me downstairs when you’re ready; I’ll leave the door open for you.”

A little dazed at the quick turn of events, Imogen watched her new landlady disappear down the stairs before turning back to the room. Her room. Shaking her head slightly, as if to clear it, she stepped further in and closed the door gently behind her. Slowly she made her way over to the bed and dropped her bag on it. She was tempted to lay down and rest a moment but knew that it would be even harder to get back up and face the rest of the day. She had a room, yes, but she still needed employment and, more urgently, food. 

Making a list of everything she needed to buy, Imogen dumped her pocketful of coins on the bed and dug out her wallet. It was made of leather and thankfully not too modern looking, so the young woman simply hid her credit card, modern money, and other odds and ends in a zipper pocket before scooping the Victorian coinage into the main pocket. Not even bothering to unpack the rest of her things, Imogen headed downstairs, remembering to lock the door behind her. 

By the time she made it to the landing, Rebecca had put together a tea tray and was seated at a little table through the doorway directly across from the stairs. Seeing Imogen, she smiled and gestured for the younger woman to sit as well, reaching to pour her a cup of tea.

“Cream and sugar?”

Imogen nodded as she sat. “Yes to both, please,” she said, gratefully accepting the steaming beverage with honest thanks. She sipped the soothing drink as Rebecca outlined some of the house rules: Sunday was laundry day, always keep a bucket of water beside the stove in case of fire, no pets, and so on. All in all, it was very reasonable and Imogen felt no qualms about signing the lease and handing over 18 of her shillings. 

“Could you tell me where I might be able to find some clothing and items for my room at a reasonable price?” Imogen asked as they finished the last of the tea and biscuits on the tray. “I didn’t bring much with me.”

Rebecca nodded and stood to clear the tray; Imogen jumped from her seat to help her, offering to carry it to the kitchen instead. 

“Of course,” the older woman replied after thanking Imogen for the assistance. “Bias aside, you’ll not find a better bargain than papa’s shop. If you need anything you can’t find there, Mason’s on Church street is good as well. If you’ve time now, I can take you; let me just fetch my coat.” Before Imogen could even think of protesting, the determined woman was out the door with a basket on her arm, calling for the younger woman to keep up. With an amused sigh she followed, taking care that the door was locked behind her.

As they traced the route Imogen had taken to get there, Rebecca pointed out a bakery, a grocer, and a butcher, assuring her that she could find fair prices there. Imogen took note, knowing that she would need to find them again on her own if she was actually stuck there and not in some odd fever dream. She also learned that Ezra, Rebecca’s husband, was a doctor and that the child they were expecting was to be their first. In what seemed like no time at all thanks to Rebecca’s informative chatter, they were walking back through the door of Berenbaum’s Second-Hand Goods, bell jingling their arrival. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” remarked the shopkeeper from behind his counter with a small smile. “I hope the two of you managed to come to an agreement?”

“Indeed,” his daughter replied with a smile of her own. “We’re just here to find Miss LaReau some things for her room.” She made her way over to an overstuffed armchair in the corner beside the counter and sank into it with a sigh. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed at the prospect of shopping in a time where essentially everything was drastically different from what she was used to, Imogen drifted over to the wall of clothing and tried to pretend that she knew what she was looking for. She sifted through numerous hanging dresses, holding a few up to herself to see if they might fit, but most were too large. Eventually, she produced a matching skirt and jacket of navy fabric, somewhat worn but still serviceable, and a high-necked white blouse that all appeared to be around the proper size. She didn’t see anything in the realm of underclothes, so she made a note to ask Rebecca where she might find some. With the garments tucked in her arms, Imogen drifted around the rest of the shop in search of the other basic necessities she had in mind, still feeling almost as if she were in a strange dream. 

By the time they finally left the shop, Imogen had acquired her full set of clothes, a kettle and pot for her stove, and a lovely quilt to add extra warmth to her bed. Rebecca’s father had promised to have one of the neighborhood boys deliver her purchases to the house later that afternoon for a tip of tuppence, leaving Imogen’s arms free for a trip to the grocer's. There she bought some tea and sugar as well as a small jar of jam and a pat of butter. Rebecca had pointed out a bakery on their way, so Imogen stopped there for a loaf of bread as well, loading up the little basket that Rebecca had had the foresight to bring.

Lastly, the two ducked into a narrow little shop just around the corner from the house that was full of billowing white petticoats, stiff corsets, stockings, and all manner of underthings. Imogen's outfit received a raised eyebrow but the shopkeeper thankfully made no comment on the strangeness of her attire. The long silk skirt and loose jumper she wore under her pea-coat were certainly not in keeping with victorian fashion, but they were mercifully modest enough to get by with just a few strange looks.

The experienced shopkeeper didn't even bother to take Imogen's measurements when the younger woman stated her request for a set of underclothes before plucking a corset box from the inventory and shoving it at her. 

"This ought to suit you," she explained. "A woman your size. Do you prefer drawers or combinations?"

Not about to admit that she had no idea what the shopkeeper was talking about, Imogen politely asked to see a selection of both before choosing a pair of the so-called combinations, which were essentially the romper version of underwear. They would definitely take some getting used to. She picked out a pair of stockings and a petticoat as well before completing her purchase. As the shopkeeper wrapped her items, Imogen discreetly counted the remainder of her coins, wincing at the amount she had left after her day of shopping. She would need to find employment and fast, if she was indeed stuck indefinitely.

Imogen and Rebecca arrived back at the house just in time to meet James, the young boy who had been tasked with delivering Imogen’s purchases. He tipped his cap to her when she paid him his tuppence and disappeared down the street, likely in search of another paying errand. Basket hanging from the crook of her elbow, Imogen slowly made her way up the stairs with her arms full, politely waving off Rebecca’s offers of help, thanking the older woman profusely and assuring her that she had done more than enough to help her already.

“I’ll be back down in a moment with your basket,” Imogen called down the stairs as she ascended, eager to stow herself away in her new room and privately lose her collective shit about the turn her life had somehow taken. 

After returning the basket, Imogen took the time to wash and fill her new kettle in the kitchen before retreating to her room, using the excuse of unpacking and settling in to sequester herself away for the rest of the evening. Once back inside the room, it took her a few tries and a lot of swearing to get the little stove going well enough to heat her water, taking note that she would need to replenish the wood supply within the week. 

While she waited for the water to boil Imogen busied herself with unpacking her clothes, new and old, and hanging them in the wardrobe, feeling almost as if she were a guest in her own body as it went through the motions. Next, she placed her remaining trinkets and books on one of the empty shelves, and then shoved her bag under the bed, leaving her conspicuous modern toiletries inside so as to keep them hidden just in case. Using a tin cup and knife that had been left on one of the shelves and the little desk as her table, Imogen made herself some tea and bread with jam, all at once sating her hunger while at the same time distracting herself for a moment longer. She knew that the moment she stopped moving, she would be left alone with her thoughts, and that was not an exciting prospect. 

Outside the windows the light was just beginning to fade, casting elongated shadows along the floor and walls, but Imogen hardly noticed. She found herself lost in thought, staring out the window and watching -without really seeing- the people passing by in the street below. It wasn’t until the lamp-lighters came and went, illuminating the darkening street with a hazy yellow light, that she finally shook herself out of the trance-like state and crawled into bed without even bothering to change into pajamas, hoping that when she awoke everything would be normal again. 


	3. A Lucky Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogen needs a job and Rebecca saves the day.

When sunlight filtered through the window and fell upon her face, Imogen grumbled and rolled over in search of darkness to continue her sleep. After the wild dream she’d had, she needed a few more moments of peaceful rest. Yawning widely, she burrowed further into the covers, only to frown when an unfamiliar scent, detergent maybe, registered in her brain. These were not her blankets, and this was not her room!

Sitting bolt upright with a gasp, Imogen took in the sight of her surroundings with a sudden sense of despair. The little wood stove across from her, the antique clothes hung in the wardrobe, and the sounds drifting up from the street outside the window all proved to her that none of it had been a dream. She was trapped in the past. 

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Imogen covered her face in her hands and let out a drawn out swear, fighting to tamp down a rush of panic. Freaking out wouldn’t get her anywhere; she needed a plan. A list!

She jumped up and snatched her notebook from where she’d left it on the little desk the night before, rummaging around in her bag for a pen. Lists always made her feel more organized and in control; she’d start there.

First thing’s first; she needed a job. No matter what else she wanted to do, she would need money. She jotted down notes, reminding herself to ask Rebecca where she might start looking. Next, she needed information; the newspaper would be a good place to start, to keep her in touch with daily events. After that, well…

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, trying to muster some encouragement. “Two steps is better than nothing! Everything’s gonna be fine. Start with a job, and then worry about the future!”

Nodding resolutely, Imogen snapped the notebook shut and forced herself to get moving. Collecting her toiletries and the towel she’d purchased the day before, she scurried through the house to the washroom Rebecca had pointed out and, relieved to find it empty, locked herself inside. In a monumental stroke of luck, the room had a proper toilet rather than an outhouse in the back garden. The tub only ran cold water, but Imogen couldn’t be bothered to wait for a kettle to boil just for the sake of a warm bath. 

While the washing was no trouble at all, the dressing was another story entirely. It took a good twenty minutes and a colorful variety of swear words for the modern woman to get the corset settled and adequately tied. Luckily the saleswoman had given her the front-lacing kind, which was a blessing when one didn’t have someone to assist with the strings. The rest of the outfit was a breeze after that, although much heavier than Imogen was used to. Her hair she simply braided and twisted into a knot at the back of her head. 

Once she deemed herself passable, Imogen deposited the rest of her things upstairs and grabbed her wallet, determined to get started on finding a job. After all, she could read and write, she spoke three languages passably, and she had over six years of college under her belt; how hard could it be?

* * *

  
  


Harder than she had expected, naturally. All of the job postings she found in the newspaper were for hard labor, factory work, laundry, or minding children. It was Rebecca, in fact, who heard Imogen’s exclamation of frustration as she crumpled the newspaper while pacing in the foyer, who saved the day once again. 

This was how Imogen found herself standing in front of the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road, clutching a piece of paper in her hand and feeling nervous as she stared up at the large building. In another rather unbelievable stroke of luck, one of the typists responsible for taking down records within the hospital had quit only a few days before in order to help her daughter who was bedridden and expecting her first child. Rebecca scrawled the address of the hospital and a quick note to her husband on a scrap piece of paper and shoved it into Imogen’s hands, ushering her out the door.

“Go!” she urged, shooing the younger woman away. “Open positions don’t last long; tell Mary I sent you and she’ll take care of you.”

Mary turned out to be the matronly receptionist in the hospital’s lobby. Once Imogen mentioned Rebecca, the woman needed no other information and simply directed the younger woman where she needed to go. 

“You’ll want the second floor, love. Dr. Gerwitz is at the end of the East Wing; there’s a placard outside his door. If he’s not in, you can just wait outside and he’ll be along shortly.”

Imogen thanked her and slowly made her way through the hospital, trying to keep out of the way of medical staff and patients until she reached the right office. Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, the woman knocked quietly on the door before pushing it open at the answering invitation.

Dr. Gerwitz was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, as best as Imogen could guess, with kind eyes and an easy smile. Tall and gangly, he hardly seemed to fit behind the polished oak desk.

“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked, peering up at Imogen over his spectacles and pausing in whatever paperwork he was filling out. 

“Rebecca sent me,” the young woman replied, holding out the note her landlady had given her. “I’m Imogen LaReau; I’m here to inquire about the open typist position.”

The doctor took the note from her and scanned it, nodding slightly when he finished.

“So you’re our new tenant,” he stated with a smile, standing up and offering his hand. Imogen took it, shaking politely and offering her own smile in return. “I’m Ezra Gerwitz, pleasure to meet you. You said you’re here about the typist position; can you type?”

Settling on a half truth, Imogen shrugged. “Well enough. I’m a fast typer, but I may need a little training on the paper and ink components as I may be unfamiliar with the machine model.”

Nodding to himself, the doctor rounded his desk and gestured towards the door. 

“Well, I can’t guarantee anything, but I can introduce you to Jack Cunningham, the manager of the typing pool. He’ll likely have you demonstrate your capability and evaluate from there.”

Nerves bubbling up in her chest, Imogen followed the man back down to the first floor and down the opposite wing until they reached a large room with a handful of women, young and old, who were busily typing away and barely spared them a glance. True to his word, the doctor led her to an office at the back of the room and introduced her to Jack Cunningham, who immediately sat her down at the clunky machine across from him and handed her a stack of reports.

“Just the first page,” he directed briskly, getting straight to the point. Imogen sensed that he was the type of person who was always going from one job to the next, never taking a break. “We need accuracy as well as speed to keep abreast of all the paperwork here.”

Imogen stared nervously down at the keyboard on the relic before her, relieved to see it was close enough to modern computer keyboards, at least as far as the letters were concerned. The big metal lever hanging from the carriage  _ had _ to be for returning it, right? And that enormous bar at the bottom was  _ surely _ the space bar...

Clearing her throat, she hesitantly began typing, going slowly in order to get a feel for the strange, clunky machine. The keys depressed much farther than a computer, which threw her at first; she could tell by the sigh he let out that Cunningham was not impressed, but she paid him no mind as she slowly picked up speed. Blessedly, her guess about the carriage return was correct, but she was entirely unable to see the results of her attempt as the keys struck the underside of the paper rather than the top. She hesitated over the punctuation a few times, making a few mistakes where the shift key was concerned, but as she reached the end of the paper her fingers were virtually flying over the keyboard, clicking out words almost as fast as she would have on a normal computer.

Eyeing her as if to measure her up, Cunningham lifted the paper free of the machine before inspecting it silently. After a moment, he peered at her over the paper.

“What’s your experience?”

Andromeda was going to have to get used to fibbing her way through encounters; lying easily she made up a story on the spot, praying that he wouldn't demand evidence.

“I spent a short time typing papers for my uncle, who was a university professor in America. I may need some training on this particular machine but my average is around 80 words per minute.”

Cunningham’s eyebrows raised, clearly a little skeptical, but he nevertheless threw her a bone. 

“All right. Consider this a test run. Be here tomorrow at 8am; one of my girls will show you the ropes. If you can’t give me at least 65 words per minute,  _ accurately _ , by Friday evening, you don’t get paid and I’ll find someone else. Understood?”

Imogen was thrilled.

“Yes, of course! Thank you so much Mr. Cunningham, you won’t regret it!”

She shook his hand enthusiastically and let Dr. Gerwitz lead her through the noisy typing room and back out to the lobby.

“Well done!” he praised when they were down the hall. “Cunningham expects a lot from his employees but he’s a fair boss; I’ve never heard any of them say a bad word about him. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly tomorrow, but if you need anything at all you know where to find me.”

Imogen beamed at him.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she gushed, riding on the high of her success, however conditional it may have been. “If I can ever return the favor, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I owe you and Rebecca more than you can imagine!”

The lanky man waved off her gratitude with a smile. “Think nothing of it; we should all endeavor to help those in need when we can.”

Imogen was touched by his sincerity.

“Still,” she insisted. “The offer stands.”

He saw her to the lobby, where she bid him and Mary both farewell. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she practically skipped back home, mindless of the dreary smog that hovered over the city and the persistent drizzle that darkened everything it touched. She was confident that she would convince Cunningham to hire her by Friday. After all, she’d worked her way through undergrad by repairing bicycles in a local shop; how complicated could a typewriter be? After all that, he only wanted 65 words a minute?

Imogen gave him 70.


	4. An Unexpected Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of an acquaintance introduces Imogen to Leman Street's finest.
> 
> tw: mentions of death/suicide and mild gore

Imogen soon settled into a routine. She worked at the hospital on weekdays typing endless pages of records. On weekends, she explored the city, always delighted to see hints of modern London in the architecture and public spaces. She also took care of her shopping on Saturdays, buying food for the week and any other household items she had need of. 

The strange little cabinet in her room turned out to be an icebox, so she was able to keep milk and produce for longer periods of time. With Rebecca’s assistance, she even arranged for regular deliveries of ice, milk, and wood for her stove (she refused to burn coal inside the house).

As the weeks went on, she was able to acquire a broader wardrobe, purchasing a few more blouses, a dress, and another skirt to save her from having to send out her laundry so often. Having seen firsthand the work that went into washing clothes and linens in this age, Imogen immediately decided that the extra cost was well worth it. 

She eventually became acquainted with the other tenants, although only one of them kept normal working hours. Millicent Brown, the woman with whom Imogen shared the upper floor, was a seamstress by day and a dance hall girl by night. Charles Fisher was a carpenter who often picked up other odd jobs to make some extra money. The three rarely crossed paths aside from the occasional weekend. Andrew MacCleod, the last tenant, was an apprentice to the local druggist. A ginger Scotsman of about 35, he was a cheerful fellow who always invited Imogen to share a cuppa whenever they were both home on Sundays.

Time passed in this way for several weeks, becoming the new normal for Imogen, making her wonder if she would spend the rest of her life working as a typist and coming home to her little room at the end of the day. She wasn’t convinced that orchestrating another accident wouldn’t just kill her for good and wasn’t desperate enough to find out, so she resigned herself to getting through one day at a time until something better came along. If she saved enough money, she could even look into attending one of the universities that accepted women, but that would likely be several years off. If she made it that long.

Imogen had no way of knowing that one chance encounter would end up changing her life once more.

* * *

  
  


Imogen’s Sunday began as most others, with a bit of a lie-in before heading out to do some shopping. Basket in hand, Imogen made her way down the stairs, only to stop short to avoid running into a whistling Andrew, who was bounding up the stairs with a basket of his own purchases at the same time.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” Imogen noted with a smile. She’d learned fairly quickly that Andrew was not a morning person. “And up early!”

Andrew beamed back at her, moving onto the landing to allow her room to pass. 

“I’ve had the most splendid news!” he exclaimed, practically bursting with excitement. “Mr. Hoffman wants me to take over the business when he retires! It probably won’t be for several more years, but he’s going to start letting me manage most of the day-to-day until then.”

Mr. Hoffman was the owner of the shop where Andrew was employed. He’d told her once in passing that the elderly man had no children of his own to pass the business down to and would either have to sell it or choose Andrew or his fellow apprentice as a successor.

“That’s wonderful!” Imogen replied, genuinely happy for him. “Congratulations, Andrew!”

Beaming, he accepted her congratulations and invited her in for tea, but the young woman reluctantly declined, citing several errands. 

“I’ll bring us back a treat,” she promised instead as she descended the stairs. “To celebrate your new position when I return!”

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set when Imogen finally made her way back home, casting long shadows on the streets as she approached the house. As she got nearer, however, she knew that something was amiss. There was a small crowd of people gathered outside and Imogen saw a policeman trying to keep everyone away from the door. Her heart skipped before picking up an anxious tempo.

“Excuse me,” the young woman called, pushing through the crowd to get to the steps. As she did so, the policeman held out a hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you need to stay back.”

Frowning, Imogen opened her mouth to argue but was beaten to the punch.

“Let her through, please,” drifted a voice from just inside the doorway. “She’s a tenant here.”

The policeman hesitated before gesturing for Imogen to pass. Inside the house stood Dr. Gerwitz and another policeman who appeared to be in the middle of questioning him. Voices drifted down from the second floor, indicating even more upstairs.

“Ezra,” Imogen interrupted, anxious and afraid to hear the news. “What happened!? Tell me it’s not Rebecca...”

The tall doctor shook his head, causing Imogen to let out an audible sigh of relief.

“Mr. MacLeod was found in his room about an hour ago,” he explained with a grimace. “It appears he may have committed suicide.”

Heart dropping into her stomach, Imogen immediately knew that something was wrong. Dropping her shopping without a thought, she hiked her skirt up and darted for the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste. When she left that morning, her neighbor had been happier than she’d ever seen him! Something was definitely wrong.

“Oi!” shouted the officer behind her. “You can’t go up there!”

Imogen ignored him, skidding onto the landing and striding purposefully toward Andrew’s room just as another man, drawn by the noise of his colleague, stepped out to head her off.

“You can’t be coming in here, Madam,” he stated bluntly, blocking her path. An older gent, he had a no-nonsense aura about him and Imogen knew he wouldn’t be so easy to slip past as the younger man downstairs.

“Andrew did not commit suicide,” she retorted in return. “And if you think he did, you might want to consider another career path.”

The man scowled down at her, clearly unimpressed. “This is no place for a lady,” he insisted firmly. “Leave the policing to those qualified to do so, eh?”

Imogen squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her full, albeit not very impressive, height, ready to do battle with the man as she took a step closer to him. His nose looked as if it had been broken at least once before; if he kept condescending to her it might very well see another rearrangement. 

Before she could open her mouth to argue further, however, another man appeared in the doorway behind him. Taller and more grave than his colleague, this stranger eyed Imogen with a calculating gaze, clearly measuring her up.

“Detective Inspector Edmund Reid,” he said at last, offering his hand in introduction. Imogen took it warily. “And this is Detective Sergeant Bennet Drake. Would you care to tell us why you’re so sure this is not in fact a self-killing? All evidence seems to point to such a conclusion; in fact, we were only called here because a neighbor reported a ‘suspicious character’ hurrying from the house some hours earlier, although nobody else can corroborate this.”

Imogen eyed him speculatively, losing some of her earlier combativeness but not enough to relax. 

“Imogen LaReau,” she introduced herself in return, still on edge. “I spoke with Andrew only this morning and he was in extremely high spirits. He’d just done his shopping for the week. He’s-” she caught herself, shaking her head as if to clear it. “He  _ was _ an apprentice at a druggists down the way, and the owner had just told him he was to inherit upon his death. The owner’s death, I mean.”

Imogen brought her arms up as if to hug herself, changed her mind at the last second, and crossed them instead. “He invited me for tea but I told him I’d bring back something to celebrate later instead. He was so happy; I find it very hard to believe that he would do something like this just a few hours later. It’s not impossible, granted, but something about it doesn’t feel right to me.”

The two men exchanged a not-so-discreet look; clearly they weren’t convinced. 

“Look,” Imogen said softly, tone more persuasive as she tried a different tactic. “Give me five minutes. Let me look around a little and I can tell you if anything is out of place or suspicious. If I don’t find anything to support my opinion then I promise to be a good little girl and go back downstairs.”

Drake snorted quietly, still looking thoroughly unimpressed, but Imogen could tell that the Detective Inspector was actually considering her request. He stared hard at her for another moment as if he could figure out what her true intentions were before nodding ever so slightly.

“Five minutes,” he warned her, stepping aside to let her pass and causing his colleague to stare at him in disbelief. “And not a second more. Do not touch anything.”

Imogen tried not to show her satisfaction as she stepped past the policemen into the room, forgetting for a moment that she was entering the scene of a friend’s possible murder. No matter the cause, Andrew was dead and the sight of him caught her off guard. It was not her first time seeing a dead body, not by far, but it was the first time the body in question belonged to someone she knew. It took her a solid moment to regain her composure, clenching her hands to hide their trembling as she tried to look at him as if he were just another body she was working on in her mother’s morgue.

As the daughter of a forensic pathologist, Imogen was no stranger to death by unnatural causes. She spent several years working in the morgue as an attendant before deciding that she was better suited to psychology, but she was grateful for the knowledge she gained in that time, especially in this moment. 

Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she approached the body slowly, scanning the floor between them for any clues. Andrew lay slumped over the little table in the corner of his room, eyes glassy in death. A bloody knife rested in his right hand; his fingers curled loosely around the handle. Momentarily forgetting her distress, Imogen immediately zeroed in on it, leaning closer for better inspection and taking care to avoid the bloodstains on the floor beneath her.

As she suspected; this was no suicide. She turned to the two men who were scrutinizing her and told them as much.

“What makes you so certain?” asked the Detective Inspector, observing her with crossed arms. His expression gave none of his thoughts away.

Imogen gestured to the hand holding the knife, taking care not to disturb the scene, falling into the old habit of dictating her observations for autopsy reports.

“Firstly,” she explained, talking as if she were simply giving a presentation in one of her classes and not describing the scene of a friend’s death, “Andrew was left handed. Cutting one’s throat is not typically the kind of task one does with a non-dominant hand. Secondly, his hands are covered in blood. This suggests that he brought his hands up to the wound, either in shock or an attempt to stop the bleeding.”

Reid stepped closer to inspect the hand in question, frowning at the sight of the blood that stained the poor man’s skin.

“Why would anyone pick the knife back up after they’ve already dropped it? They wouldn’t. Andrew wouldn’t; it doesn’t make much sense”

Next, Imogen leaned in and inspected the wound itself, trying not to flinch at the awful sight and trying doubly hard not to recognize this as the man with whom she had shared many afternoon teas. She spoke quietly and calmly, trying to maintain her composure in the face of two complete strangers.

“The wound appears to have been made from left to right, indicating a right handed offender; you can tell by the trail abrasion on the right end, made when the blade was exiting the skin.”

She stood back upright, wincing as her right hip popped audibly, and stepped back from the body, trying to remember everything she had ever learned about the self-inflicted deaths she’d encountered before.

“Suicide by self-inflicted stab or cut wounds is very uncommon,” she spoke out loud, pacing a little as she explained her theory. “You’re more likely to see death by suffocation or strangulation, overdose, or firearm. In cases of cutting, however, you often see hesitation marks; in this case there are none. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything on its own, but there are too many red flags here to ignore it.

“Best guess? This wound was made from behind by someone who was right handed. Andrew, caught by surprise, brought his hands up to the wound before dying, hence the blood. His attacker, wanting to make it look like a suicide, placed the knife in Andrew’s hand before leaving the scene. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t know that Andrew was left handed, making this an altogether unlikely scenario.”

She turned on her heel, facing the two detectives who were watching her with some combination of bemusement, skepticism, and curiosity. 

“For the sake of professionality, I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that this was not a suicide. Be that as it may, there is enough reasonable doubt here to warrant an investigation.”

Imogen fidgeted under the weight of the Detective Inspector's stare. She could tell he was mulling her theory over in his head but couldn't read anything from the expression on his face. At last, he broke the silence.

"Did Mr. MacLeod have any enemies? Perhaps someone he owed money to?"

Relieved that he seemed to be taking the situation seriously, Imogen let out a deep breath. Her shoulders lost some of the tension they had been holding.

"He never mentioned anything like that to me," she answered honestly. "I would speak to his employer. Andrew spoke very highly of him; perhaps he knows something that could help."

The man nodded curtly, reaching into a breast pocket to retrieve a small notebook and pencil. 

"And the name of the druggist he worked for?"

* * *

It was nearing midnight when Imogen was able to shut herself in the quiet darkness of her room, leaning back against the door with a sigh. After answering the Detective Inspector's questions, she had been ushered back downstairs to wait with Ezra and a visibly distressed Rebecca, whom Imogen later learned had been the one to discover Andrew. They were all asked to give statements to the officer stationed in the foyer before Imogen drew Rebecca away for some tea as other officers prepared to remove Andrew's body from the house.

By the time the room was secured and they were allowed back upstairs, Imogen was nearly asleep on her feet, drained after an emotional day.

Feeling almost wooden, the young woman placed the basket of her purchases on the table, staring blankly at the little cake she had bought to share with Andrew over tea just hours earlier. Now, she couldn't bear the thought of touching it. 

Throat tight, Imogen sank onto the edge of her bed and buried her face in her trembling hands. Her eyes burned but no tears came, just the overwhelming weight of being in over her head. More than ever, she wished for the comfort of her creaky old apartment and a life that seemed farther away than it ever had.


End file.
